Chapter 116

Amelia

Elsa arrived at the Haven like she had been waiting for this moment her entire life. She didn’t come quietly. She swept in with an entourage of journalists and camera crews trailing after her, their equipment already rolling before she even stepped out of the sleek black car. Her coat was tailored, her makeup flawless, her smile luminous as if the war outside was only a backdrop for her performance.

She moved slowly, deliberately, pausing every few steps to let the lenses capture her from the best angle. The crowd outside murmured as though royalty had returned to them, even though she had abandoned these same people when things were quieter.

She moved from family to family with blankets draped across her arms, kneeling gracefully to comfort a crying child, pressing warm kisses to foreheads. She stopped to clasp the hands of elders, to linger with soldiers as though thanking them personally for their service. And when she found Jenny, she pulled her close, stroking her hair like a doting mother.

Jenny leaned in, radiant and smug, fully aware of the cameras trained on them. Elsa posed them together in the light, Jenny smiling up at her as though she had always been a perfect daughter. The flashbulbs caught all of it, and the photographers gasped like they had witnessed something holy.

Within hours the photos were everywhere. Feeds flooded with images of Elsa, the kingdom’s steady Luna, holding civilians as if they were her own children. Headlines praised her as the face of resilience. Hashtags lauded her as the one holding the kingdom together while Richard was painted as absent, barricaded in war rooms, out of touch with the suffering of his people.

I sat on my bunk scrolling through it, my hands shaking with anger. Comment after comment painted her as savior, the true leader in the crisis. Furious, I closed the feed, powerless to do anything but watch as her story spread faster than the truth.

The bitterness in the Haven was palpable. Some of the refugees were taken in by her act, whispering about how kind she looked, how comforting her smile seemed. Others muttered that she was only there because of the cameras. I could feel their eyes flick between me and the images on their screens, measuring, comparing. My presence had always been controversial. Elsa’s was polished and easy to worship.

Later, in the corridors, I caught sight of Richard at the far end of the hall. His jaw was tight, his shoulders braced, his stride clipped. I knew the storm was building in him long before he finally sought me out. When the cameras were gone, he found me in his office. He didn’t roar or rage. He sat heavily on the edge of the desk and dragged his hand through his hair.

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” he said. His voice was low, but sharp. “She always did. That smile is a weapon sharper than any blade, and I can’t counter it without looking cruel. If I speak, I look petty. If I stay silent, I look weak.” He raked a hand through his hair and let out a bitter laugh.

“She's banned from the Pack House after trying to poison me, but this isn’t the Pack House. There was never enough evidence to extend that ban further, and she is smart enough not to contest it legally. She weasels her way in wherever she can, through whatever loopholes she can find, bending whatever rules she can fudge, anything that will put her back in the spotlight and give her the illusion of power.”

I stepped closer, but he kept his gaze fixed on the wall. When he finally looked at me, I saw it. Not just fury, but fear. “History is repeating itself,” he muttered. “I’m losing ground to her again, the way I did before.” His hand tightened on the desk until the wood creaked. “I remember the last time she won the crowd over me. I swore I would never let it happen again.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him it wasn’t true, but the words stuck. Because the images were undeniable. Elsa shining in the spotlight, Richard hidden in the shadows. My heart ached for him, but also burned with frustration that I couldn’t fight this war for him.

That afternoon I threw myself into the work. The refugees needed supplies, and if I couldn’t fight Elsa in the press, I could fight her by being useful. I carried boxes of bread into the kitchens, helped distribute blankets in the outer halls, and sat with mothers who needed someone to hold their babies while they rested.

People murmured their thanks, clutching the bread as though it were treasure, and yet I caught the flicker in their eyes. Gratitude, yes, but also doubt. I wasn’t the Luna with the cameras. I wasn’t a legend on their screens.

It was in one of those corridors that a little boy tugged on my sleeve. He couldn’t have been more than seven. His cheeks were smudged with dirt, his clothes too thin for the draft that seeped through the walls. He held up a folded piece of paper.

“I drew this for you,” he said shyly.

I opened it and froze. The sketch was crude but unmistakable, me, standing tall, but with wolf ears atop my head and eyes colored in with a furious red. Around me, lines of light radiated. The boy looked proud.

“I saw you glow,” he said simply. “When we were leaving. You scared the bad ones away.”

My throat closed. “You… you saw me what?”

He nodded with the solemn certainty of a child. “You’re like the stories. Like the ones who protect us when the dark comes.”

I forced a confused smile. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”

But my hands shook as I tucked the paper away. Glow. Red eyes. Wolf ears. Things I had never shown, not even to myself. The boy had seen something I didn’t understand, something that left a chill in my bones. It felt too close to the dreams I had been having, too close to the whispers I had been trying to push aside.

That evening, I returned to the hallways of the Haven. The corridors were quieter now, most people tucked away in their quarters. Richard leaned against the window at the end of the hall, the lamplight catching the shadows under his eyes. He looked worn, the weight of the day dragging him down. His steps were heavy, his mouth set in a grim line. I touched his arm, forcing him to meet my eyes.

“Those pictures don’t matter,” I told him. “Anyone can hand out blankets for a camera. But you’re the one who carries this kingdom when no one is watching. That kind of strength is worth more than staged compassion.”

He exhaled, long and slow, as though releasing something he had been holding all day. His lips pressed together, as if he wanted to argue, but the words never came. For a long time, he didn’t speak. Then, slowly, he nodded. The fire in his eyes didn’t dim, but it steadied. He let me hold his hand without pulling away. His fingers curled around mine, a silent answer, a fragile kind of surrender that felt more powerful than any performance caught on camera.